


if all of this flies apart

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Break Up, Brief Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn - Freeform, Character Study, Fix-It, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Road Trips, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Alice and Quentin have a fight, and Eliot and Quentin have a heart to heart. For the first time in a while, someone is thinking about the future.





	if all of this flies apart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based on the prompt “things you said that I wasn't meant to hear” and then kind of... became about something else. This is rated ‘T’ because of the frank discussion of suicidal behavior, but is much pre-relationship-y than the stuff I usually write. That said, there’s a pretty good chance there will be a sequel, so. Take that as you will.
> 
> I can not thank [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) enough for continuing to beta read for me, and also for being a source of reassurance and validation when I’m freaking out that I’ve forgotten how to write.

“Because I wanted to die, Alice!”

“Oh, and what, you thought you’d make me _watch_?”

The fight is already well underway when Eliot decides to make a break for the stairs from where he’s been hiding on the balcony. Maybe not hiding, really, no, because he likes the view, and finds the wide-open space incredibly calming. A newly on-set claustrophobia meant being inside a building, any building, for the majority of a day left him jittery and on edge, constantly mildly afraid that there might not be an outside to step into every time he opened a door. It would pass, in time, according to Lipson, along with the stomach pain from Sorrow’s wound in his abdomen. 

So he’d taken to haunting the balcony, which had the advantage of not being a place the Monster seemed to frequent. People rarely jumped when they caught sight of him out here. Julia and Kady, Penny and Alice, the rest of them flinched whenever they saw him in the kitchen or the living room, immediate and undeniable. Oddly it was Quentin, who by the sound of it had burdened most of the brunt of the Monster’s twisted version of attention, was the only one who didn’t seem to startle at the sight of him. Maybe he knew Eliot too well, knew the Monster too well to not be able to distinguish the differences in their body language.

Maybe he was too burned out to care.

Fights like these did kind of point to that, as much as Eliot hates the thought of it. But the door to the room where Quentin pretends to sleep and Alice stays if she’s in the apartment is open, and there’s no way Eliot can get to the stairs without them seeing him move by. He considers retreating out onto the balcony again, but then Quentin’s voice 

“I _wasn’t thinking_, how many times do I have to tell you?” He bites back, sharp and angry, and Eliot’s used to Quentin’s frustrated shouting, hears exhaustion edging on a plea in his voice. 

Alice must not hear it, though, because she bites back. “And that was _weeks_ ago, anyway– I want to know why you won’t touch me _now_.”

“I _do _touch you,” Quentin objects, and Eliot really, really should not be hearing this.

“Quentin, why did you even want to start this again if you’re just going to make me deal with–”

There’s a bright flare of anger somewhere in Eliot’s heart, in the little protective corner that he’s been fighting to keep quiet which spent fifty years telling Quentin that loving him wasn’t _hard_, wasn’t an _unpleasant_ task. He shouldn’t be hearing this, but he wants to step in, step up, tell her to fuck off because Quentin didn’t _deserve that_ but– there’s a ping of bitter laughter from Quentin, and then he’s saying with dripping sarcasm “Oh, right, of course. You know, you and my mother should form a club. ‘People who Quentin Coldwater is mentally ill just to spite.’ She’d make mugs.”

“I’m not your _mother_,” Alice snipes out, and even Eliot winces a little at the way that lands.

“No shit, thanks for the pointer. What else you got cooking in that big brain of yours?” 

“Oh, _fuck you_. I’m _done_ with this.” There’s a slamming sound, like something heavy crashing into a piece of furniture, or a closet door slamming shut. “Have a nice life– or don’t! Since you seem to be into that.”

It’s around then that Eliot realizes he really needs to disappear one way or another, and makes a foolhardy dash for the staircase. He makes it about two thirds of the way across the open plan living space before Alice storms out of the room and catches sight of him. For an honest second, he thinks she might actually throw battle magic at him, enough that his hands are reaching for the tuts for a shield on instinct. But then she huffs out an aggravated sigh and snaps “You want this mess? You’re _welcome_ to it.” and stalks towards the door.

Eliot opens his mouth, to tell her– what? That he’d never set out to steal her boyfriend? That she was _wrong_, that nothing about Quentin was the way she seemed to think it was? To _apologize_, like somehow he’d betrayed her again, when he’d been so careful to try to give them space? But she’s gone in a flash of puffy skirts and magic, and Eliot’s left staring into an empty condo. Only, it’s not quite empty, is it?

From where he’s frozen in the living room, Eliot can see Quentin standing in the middle of his bedroom, eyes fixed wearily on Eliot. He looks small, younger than his 27-cum-102 years would imply, arms hanging limply at his sides, still in jeans and a soft, long sleeved, black-pebbled-white shirt but barefoot, weirdly vulnerable. 

Eliot could run away. Maybe he should. 

Or he could try to pick up the mess. Messes. The messy fucking minefield between them, which has never, ever once overruled the fact that Quentin is Eliot’s best friend. No matter what.

So inside he turns back into the room, nodding his head in invitation, and heads over to the drink cart. There’s some good fucking scotch stocked in this place, and Eliot’s been _trying_ to drink less, but goddamn, Quentin probably needs it and so does he. He’s not watching when Quentin emerges from his bedroom, but Eliot can hear the sounds of movement, rustles of clothing as Quentin sinks down onto the couch.

Eliot fills them each two fingers of scotch, snaps a freezing spell over the top to chill them in lieu of ice, and turns back to find Quentin, slumped against the couch. His expression is unreadable, clouded but not– there’s none of the devastation Eliot usually associates with ‘Quentin and Alice are off again’ as a state of being. He looks up when Eliot approaches, and takes the proffered glass of whiskey with a half-smile, a twist at the corner of his mouth which just teases a dimple. _Fuck_, Eliot misses his dimples. He’s not sure he’s seen Quentin smile at all in the weeks since coming back to this condo. He sinks onto the couch next to Q, and finds with relief that Quentin doesn’t sway away from him, just lets Eliot settle down next to him.

“I’m sorry you got dumped,” Eliot says, gently, and he actually finds that he means it. Finding Alice and Quentin back together had been an absolute nut-punch to end all nut-punches, but it’s nothing to the idea of coming back and finding a world _without_ Quentin. That didn’t bear thinking about. 

“Yeah, I should probably be upset about that, right?” Quentin sighs, swirling his whiskey around in the glass. It’s a fidget, a tell, and Eliot recognises it as such, but it’s fine. Let the boy have something to do with his hands.

“Objectively, yes,” Eliot says cautiously, watching the play of emotions across Quentin’s expressive face. “Aren’t you? I– Don’t take this the wrong way, Q, but you kind of look like someone ripped your very favorite Star Trek hoodie.”

Q’s snorts, shooting Eliot a look and a raised eyebrow, but well. “I just feel– empty. Like someone reached inside and took out all of my ‘_me’_ parts and now I’m just– I don’t know, some kind of animated construct. I know I _should be sad_ but...”

He trails off, then, staring off into space. Eliot gives him a couple minutes and then prompts. “But?”

“It never felt real, you know?” Quentin says, voice hushed like he’s speaking secrets out into the world. His eyes flick over to Eliot, fixing on a point somewhere off his left shoulder. “Being back with her. I– Jesus, we only fucked once, and I think spaced out through most of it.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Eliot asks, carefully. It’s a worrying thought, for many reasons, but more than anything Eliot just wants– he wants to _touch_ Quentin.

Fuck, he wants to _hold his hands_. Brush his fingers against the point of his elbow. Press their shoulders together. They’ve always been tactile, but now... with the ghosts of their history and the monster floating between them, Eliot’s not sure he’s allowed.

“I mean– It didn’t used to be,” Quentin mutters, drawing his knees up to his chest. He looks small, hunched down like this. Small and scared and young. “I don’t know. It was just– She was trying so hard, and I _remember_– I remember being the person who would have done _anything_ to get her back. And I maybe. I don’t know, maybe I was just tired of being the person who was doing anything to get _you_ back. With her, at least it– it cost less.”

“She nearly killed you,” Eliot chokes out, because he _remembers_ that. He remembers that Quentin nearly died, body torn apart keeping a niffin inside. 

“Yeah, well. So did the Monster. He was just took long enough to make me want it first.” Eliot must look as stricken as he feels, because Quentin’s expression turns guilty. “That’s not fair to you, I’m sorry. I– Fuck, Eliot, I’m so glad you’re back, have I– Have I told you that?”

“A couple times,” Eliot chokes out, forcing a laugh. Carefully, he reaches out, sets a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. Q doesn’t flinch, so Eliot lets himself relax a little, feel the shape of Quentin’s bones and muscles under his hand, feel the warmth of him through the cotton. “Have I told you that I fucking missed you?”

“A couple of times,” Quentin returns, softly. He leans into Eliot’s hand a little, then brings the whiskey up to his lips, sips and swallows. “Anyway. Being a bad boyfriend to Alice Quinn is hardly a new experience for me. Or just a bad boyfriend in general.”

“You’re not,” Eliot says, before he can stop himself. The words trip off his tongue, and they taste like fresh baked bread, and late summer peaches, like Quentin’s skin in the firelight. Quentin gives him a startled look, and he almost backpedals, makes an excuse, _runs away again_ but– He’s supposed to be being brave, isn’t he? “I mean. From what I remember.”

“Is that a thing we talk about now?” His voice is rough, scraped and sharp, and Eliot... has been so unfair to him, for so long.

“It could be,” Eliot says carefully, squeezing Quentin’s shoulder under his hand, and then letting go. “But it doesn’t have to be. You did just get dumped.”

“I did,” Quentin agrees, holding up his glass in mock salute, before draining it. “Fucking cheers to me. Hurray for limbo: can’t fucking die, don’t get to have the good parts of being alive, either.”

“The good parts are Alice Quinn?” Eliot says, skeptically, and Quentin snorts.

“Well. In theory. She’s smart and beautiful and– really wrong for me.” Eliot hums, but elects not to say anything. “You know she never used to let me go down on her? Fuck, I probably shouldn’t tell you that. Forget I said it. But I mean– for real?”

“Really?” Eliot’s voice is a little too delighted, but, fuck– Jesus, he _missed_ Quentin. Real Quentin, actual Quentin, Quentin who had stories and secrets and feelings and thoughts to share that Eliot didn’t already know, couldn’t play on loop in his mind forever. He’d been prepared to stand at Quentin’s side at his wedding and be the favorite uncle to his kids, because a life without Q just wasn’t a life Eliot wanted.

Somehow, along the way, he’d learned to love unconditionally. Who knew?

That didn’t mean a little part of him wasn’t gleeful at the idea that _it’s better when it’s us_ might actually hold some merit. 

“I mean– I can’t _blame_ her, her family is. Weird. Also shouldn’t tell you that. But–”

“But it’s your favorite thing,” Eliot fills in, because he remembers _that_ well enough too. “Truly the death knell for a relationship with the orally fixated.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin whines, pushing his hand into Eliot’s chest. It makes them both sway, and somehow they end up closer together after, Eliot’s arm stretched out along the back of the couch behind Quentin.

He smells familiar, even with this much distance between them, like books and whiskey and like he probably could use a shower. _I’m so fucking glad you’re not dead_, he thinks, looking at the back of Quentin’s head. And, well– bravery. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says softly, reaching forward to brush his knuckles against Quentin’s back, over where his tattoo would live under his shirt.

“I want to be. I know I should be. Every time before, once I– woke up in whatever hospital I was in, I was glad I failed. But now...” Quentin shakes his head, pain sharp on his face. “It feels like the story just– ended. My dad is dead and Julia’s a goddess again and I’m just– I’m still _here_ and everything is still _moving_ on and I feel like I’m drowning and I– and I don’t know– I’m so tired.”

“Q,” Eliot says, urgently, sitting forward, palm flat Quentin’s back. “You aren’t alone. I know what this feels like, okay? I’ve _been_ here. Please believe me, you are not alone here.”

Quentin looks over at him, eyes wet but a thoughtful pinch in his brow. “After Mike? We all kind of– You were pretty fucked up about it.”

“Well, when you kill your boyfriend only to find out he was possessed by an evil version of a man from a children’s book, it does begin to wear on you,” Eliot jokes lightly, and it almost doesn’t sting anymore. Absently he slides his hand up to brush the back of Quentin’s neck with his thumb “But it’s not just that. I recently had a lot of time to do a lot of very deep self reflection, and honestly? I spent most of my adult life trying to drink my way into an early grave, and it almost worked. I know what it feels like to be drowning, and I’m not going to let you. I will hold a life preserver for you as _long as you need_.”

Quentin blinks for a minute, then leans over, just... tips sideways a little until he’s resting against Eliot’s chest, head tucked under the curve of his chin. It’s so familiar, the shape of him, the weight, it tugs sharply in Eliot’s breast bone, because– This is _Q_. Sure his hair is a lot shorter, and he’s maybe a little thinner, but every single fiber of Eliot’s being knows him. “I missed you so fucking much,” Quentin breathes, voice sounding clogged, and Eliot wraps him up, arms around the broad span of his shoulders.

“I know,” Eliot murmurs, tipping his face down so it’s resting on Quentin’s hair. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, darling.” The pet name trips off his tongue just like the memory earlier had, except this time Quentin doesn’t tense against it. He just sighs, and grinds his face against Eliot’s collarbones. 

“What else was I gonna do?” he mutters, like the kind of unconditional love he shows isn’t something precious and unique, something Eliot has had to work to learn.

“Literally anything else?” Eliot quips. “There’s always choices. So thank you.”

Quentin just hums, and then sighs, pulling back. Eliot lets him go, feeling slightly bereft. “I don’t know what to do now, El,” he admits, looking down into his empty whiskey glass like there might be some kind of answer written on the bottom. “I can’t go back to being a grad student, but– I can’t stay here, not in this fucking place where I’m waiting for the monster to walk around every corner. I don’t think I can stand to go back to Fillory, either.”

The helplessness in his voice churns Eliot’s stomach, so he grabs for the first thing he can think of, the first thing that pops into his mind. “Have you ever been to California?”

“No,” Quentin replies, brow pinching in confusion. 

“Let’s go.”

_“What? _Why?” Quentin blinks, clearly off footed and so fucking cute. But at least he doesn’t look abjectly miserable anymore. “What’s in California?”

“Beaches. Probably good food, if the rumors are to be believed. Beautiful boys and girls who might want to have sex with one or both of us, if you’re feeling that kind of thing. Wine country. Disneyland. The Golden Gate Bridge.”

“_Eliot_. What are you talking about?”

“Let’s go. We’re Magicians, it’s not exactly like money’s going to be an object. Let’s grab a portal. Or a flight. Or a car. We could do that, get a car and drive across the country. Though, I’m from the midwest, I can tell you, you see one corn field you’ve seen them all.”

“I don’t– drive much,” Quentin sputters out, clearly the objection most readily at hand, and Eliot smiles a little, swaying into him. 

“You’re a mess, Coldwater,” He says fondly, watching Quentin’s mouth fall open in objection. “It’s okay. I could drive the complicated bits. Open highway only, for you. We can drive half-way there and portal the rest of the way. _Or!_ Portal to Vegas! I’ve always wanted to go to Vegas. Oh my god, Quentin, you could _clean up_ in Vegas with your card skills. We wouldn’t even have to knock over any atms!”

“You’re crazy,” Quentin says, hesitant, but he’s starting to look thoughtful which means Eliot has an edge.

“Why? You’re feeling stuck, okay. So let’s do something different. I’m not High King anymore. Pretty sure we’re on indefinite academic leave considering our school decided mind-wipe us out of existence. We’ve got the time and the money doesn’t matter. Let’s just– get a change of scenery for a while.”

“Are you– why would you want to do this?” Quentin asks, which is as good as a yes, and Eliot feels a little sparkle of excitement.

“Because I missed you, and I don’t want to _miss you_ anymore. Because I’ve been stuck in my memories for half a year, and they’re all pretty fucking terrible, let me tell you. I want to go somewhere I’ve never been, and make _good memories_. Because I’m just Eliot now, and I’m not sure who that is anymore, but– the last time I had to figure that out, you helped a lot.”

“I– Eliot, I never _stopped_ being in love with you. Like, you get that, right?” Quentin says, like this is somehow a deterrent. “If we– I’m not sure how to do what you’re asking without that... bubbling up again.”

“So let it,” Eliot says, feeling a little reckless and wild, a little hopeful, a little brave. “I still don’t think we can pick up a life that was lived by other people, but– Q, I’m choosing you, now. In whatever way you’ll have me. I just. I want to be where you are. I want us to find the next chapter for you, so you can stop feeling like this. Darling, I never stopped loving you, either.”

“That’s why you shot the Monster at Blackspire,” Quentin fills in, and Eliot nods, a slow drip of guilt down the back of his throat. “Fuck. You lied to me. You– you lied to me, and you made me think that– that none of it mattered, that it wasn’t important or– or– or meaningful. You made me doubt _all of it_.”

“I know,” Eliot agrees softly. “I’m so sorry, Q.”

“I think I’m probably going to be really mad about this, sometime soon,” Quentin says, but he doesn’t sound mad, he just sounds tired. “So factor that into your consideration when you’re proposing being trapped in a car with me.”

“I deserve it,” Eliot says softly, reaching out to touch the side of Quentin’s face, brush his fingers gently against the curve of his ear. “I know you’re– not in a good place, and you just got dumped and I’m not trying to ask more of that from you. I just want to be with you.”

“In a car,” Quentin says, skeptically. “On the way to California.”

“Yep. Or Portland. Or Seattle. Honestly, the destination is kind of secondary.”

“I still think you’re crazy,” Quentin mutters, but he’s leaning back in, curling into Eliot’s arms like this time he means to stay there. “But I really fucking missed you. I want to be with you, too.”

That’s enough, as far as Eliot’s concerned. “We can figure it out from there.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


End file.
